Ambergris
by Cerberusia
Summary: For James, it's always been Lily. With one exception.


In fourth year, you write her a love letter. It's Peter's idea, and for once it's Remus encouraging it rather than Sirius.

"Anything that doesn't involve dungbombs wins my approval," he says firmly, so you set-to because, to be perfectly honest, you _want_ Remus' approval. He's quiet and bookish and hard to impress with your usual boyish tricks, so it's not surprising that he likes this idea better.

Remus is a bit like Lily, really, you think, although you'd never tell him that in case he thought you were trying to insult him. Clever, well-read, and even when they're being quiet they have that little sparkle in their eye, like they know exactly what you're thinking and have a witty comment to make about it. And of course, that acid tongue, cutting from Lily and amusing from Remus - mainly because Remus doesn't actually want you strung up from the Great Hall ceiling by your thumbs as you suspect Lily does.

So you ignore your friends and your Charms homework - you can do seven inches on Tickling Charms over breakfast - in favour of writing the most beautiful love letter the world will ever know.

Half an hour and two paragraphs of dubious merit in, Remus wanders into the dorm to see how you're doing. He flings his bag on his bed - a habit which used to surprise you from gentle, patient Remus, but then you found out he used a modified Cushioning Charm inside and the world righted itself - and comes to peer over your shoulder. His hair brushes your ear.

"Two paragraphs in and not a single reference to her breasts. Not bad, Prongs - you're actually trying." He sounds approving and a little amused, and you flush a little because you _like_ being praised, and praise from Remus which isn't mixed with exasperation is the best kind there is. He always seems so much more _mature_ than you or Sirius or Peter. Then again, at fourteen he's seen - felt - worse things than any of you. You know that if you look up at him you'll see the fading scar on his jaw from last month's transformation.

"Thought I might as well take it seriously for once," you say with a shrug. "I do mean what I'm writing, after all." Remus' hand is warm on your shoulder. He smells of ambergris. You turn your head and see that he's smiling, and at that moment you swear - you _swear_ - that even though it's seven in the evening the fading sun shines just that little bit brighter. You see the the amber in his hazel eyes, the lamplight gilding the fine hair on his arms, and at that moment you fall just a little bit in love.

You don't write Remus any love letters - blokes don't do that kind of thing for other blokes. You don't think about having sex with him either, because from what you've gathered about gay sex it involves a lot of cocks going up arses, an idea which you find slightly alarming. You don't mind the thought of just touching another boy's prick of course - that's just like masturbation, really - but the thought of touching Remus' makes your stomach twist in frightening ways, so you try to avoid thinking of naked boys at all because in your head they all turn into Remus sooner or later.

But you do think of kissing him. You think about it a lot, in lessons or over dinner or in the common room or sometimes in bed when you can't get to sleep. It'd be nice, you think. Like Remus. You don't think you touch him more than usual, but then you don't remember how much you touched him before - everything plays out in a different light.

Mostly, you try to make him smile. You know he likes praline chocolate, so when you go to Honeydukes you make sure to get a selection with some in and don't let Sirius snaffle them before Remus gets a chance. You let him ramble about Potions or Arithmancy or whatever and grumble about his incompetent Herbology partner and feel the cadence of his soft voice, watch his gesturing hands. You've never noticed before how much he moves his arms when he speaks.

You never do actually kiss him, though sometimes when you hug it's just so _itempting/i_ to press your mouth to the heartbeat under his ear. You can't hug him too often, no more than you hug Sirius, so at full moon you take the opportunity to rub against him and drape yourself over him like animals do. You can't embrace him the way Sirius does as a dog - these forelegs were not made for hugging - but you press your sides together and rub your cheek against his muzzle, being careful of your antlers. The wolf smells like friend-danger-friend. It's completely impractical, but this is okay, this is permitted. This is safe.

What is not safe is when you dream - only once, but vividly - that you are a wolf too, and you are chasing wolf-Remus, chasing him through the forest and over streams until you catch him and send both of you tumbling into the stream, thrashing and snarling, until Remus turns back into a boy and writhes and gasps and whines in an entirely different way and you wake up at four in the morning with a hard cock and tears on your face.

You can't look Remus in the eye over breakfast, and when Sirius casually asks whether you're still into Lily - haven't been sniffing around her for a while, what happened to that letter? don't be crude, says Remus, eyeballing you over his orange juice while Peter sits in the shadows, quiet and ever-watchful - you say, just as casually, that you've just been holding off on her for a little while, letting her get comfortable before you try a new approach. Sirius smiles widely, Remus looks slightly suspicious, and Peter just stays quiet. He's probably noticed, you think, with a lurch of horror. But Petey's good with secrets, both ferreting out and keeping them - your 'indiscretion' is safe with him. You turn back to your hash browns and start thinking of ingenious ways to woo her.

You never do send that letter. Partly because it was never finished - though you're sure you could have finished it if you wanted to - but really because you just _can't_.

It passes in time, as all things do: you spend the summer away from Remus and indulging in idle fantasies about Lily finally accepting you. A couple of years later, in your head it's 'the spring you sort-of fancied Remus' and that's alright. You still try to make Remus smile, but you don't let yourself linger too long on his downswept eyelashes as he does. You think you'll tell him about it one day, maybe when you're in your twenties and a bit drunk, how for one spring you sort-of fancied him, and you'll laugh and then he'll laugh and it won't be awkward at all.

And when he laughs, you'll look straight at him, like you haven't been able to since that spring, and then look away. And when you look away, you won't carry the impression of him like that, laughing and open and handsome, any more. And when you leave or he leaves, you will no longer remember the sweet-earth smell of ambergris, so long associated with sun-dappled parchment and blotted words of childish devotion and golden arms and golden eyes and gold gold gold like liquid sunlight.

One day, you swear, you will forget.


End file.
